Leyden's second publication was a new edition of "The Complaynt of Scotland," which he enriched with an introduction, copious notes, and a glossary. He also undertook for six months the editorship of the Scots Magazine, with which the Edinburgh Magazine was incorporated by Archibald Constable in 1802. His well-known passion for oriental travel and for the languages and literatures of the East induced his friends to endeavour to obtain for him from the government some appointment by which these tastes might be gratified. In this they failed, but procured for him the appointment of an assistant-surgeon in the East India Company's service, for which he qualified himself by intense study in less than six months. About the same time the degree of M.D. was conferred upon him by the University of St. Andrews. The somewhat sudden change of his profession afforded very great amusement to his troops of friends.

Before his departure (December, 1802) from Scotland, to which he was never to return, Leyden finished his longest poem, "The Scenes of Infancy," descriptive of his loved native vale, and intrusted its publication to his friend Dr. Thomas Brown. The poem was published in Edinburgh in 1803, and during the same year there appeared another 12mo volume from his pen, entitled "Scottish Descriptive Poems, with some Illustrations of Scottish Literary Antiquities."

Dr Leyden's last winter in Great Britain was spent in London, where he enjoyed the society of many distinguished men of letters. He sailed for India, April 7, 1803, arriving at Madras, August 19th. His health soon gave way, and he was obliged to go to Prince of Wales Island, where he resided for some time. He also visited Sumatra and the peninsula of Malacca, and collected much information concerning the languages, literature, and relationship of the Indo-Chinese tribes. On this subject he wrote a dissertation for the Asiatic Society at Calcutta. He left Prince of Wales Island on being appointed professor of Hindostanee in the Bengal College. This was however soon exchanged for a more lucrative

Leyden's literary services being required by the governor-general, he left Calcutta for Madras, and afterwards proceeded with the army in the expedition against Java. "His spirit of romantic adventure," says Sir Walter Scott, "led him literally to rush upon death; for with another volunteer who attended the expedition, he threw himself into the surf, in order to be the first Briton of the expedition who should set foot upon Java. When the success of the well-concerted movement of the invaders had given them possession of the town of Batavia, Leyden displayed the same ill-omened precipitation in his haste to examine a library, or rather a warehouse of books, in which many Indian manuscripts of value were said to be deposited. A library in a Dutch settlement was not, as might have been expected, in the best order; the apartment had not been regularly ventilated, and either from this circumstance, or already affected by the fatal sickness peculiar to Batavia, Leyden, when he left the place, had a fit of shivering, and declared the atmosphere was enough to give any mortal a fever." The presage was too just; he took his bed, and died in three days (August 28, 1811), on the eve of the battle which gave Java to the British Empire. His untimely death was the subject of general lamentation in England and Scotland, as well as in India. Sir John Malcolm, Sir Walter Scott, and many learned societies honoured his memory with notices of his life and genius. In the “Lord of the Isles" occurs the following lines as a tribute to the distinguished Scottish scholar, patriot, and poet, which evidently came warm from the heart:

"Scarba's Isle, whose tortured shore
Still rings to Corrievrekin's roar,
And lonely Colonsay,-

Scenes sung by him who sings no more!

His brief and bright career is o'er,

And mute his tuneful strains; Quench'd is his lamp of varied lore, That loved the light of song to pour; A distant and a deadly shore

Has Leyden's cold remains."

The poetical remains of Leyden were published in 1819, with a memoir by the Rev. James Morton; and a new edition of his prin- | cipal poem was issued in September, 1875, as a contribution to the centennial celebration of his birth in Roxburghshire, entitled "Scenes of Infancy, descriptive of Teviotdale, by John Leyden, M.D., with a biographical sketch of the author, by the Rev. W. W. Tulloch, B.D., Parish Church, Kelso." His ballads are much | superior to his "Scenes of Infancy." Scott has said that the opening verses of "The Mermaid" exhibit a melody of sound which has seldom been excelled in English poetry. Leyden left numerous MSS. on subjects connected with oriental literature, in a thorough knowledge of which he was unrivalled. Next to his passion for learning was his passion for athletic sports, in which he took the greatest delight, and de- | sired fame not less for feats of running and leaping than in the pursuits of literature-a fit companion for Christopher North and the Ettrick Shepherd. Enthusiastic love of Scotland, and especially of his own district of Teviotdale, was also a prominent characteristic

of his character. Lord Cockburn, in his agreeable Memorials of his Time, remarks that Leyden's "love of Scotland was delightful. It breathes through all his writings and all his proceedings, and imparts to his poetry its most attractive charm." Dr. Leyden's intense abstraction whenever he had a book in his hand is said to have suggested to his friend Sir Walter the amusing character of Dominie Samson; and Allan Cunningham has remarked, "I never heard Scott name Leyden, but with an expression of regard and a moistening eye."

The writer cannot omit from this brief memoir the conclusion of a charming biography of Leyden, which appeared in the Edinburgh Annual Register for 1811, and which, from its "careless inimitable grace," is evidently the composition of Sir Walter. After quoting his friend's affecting farewell to the graves of his ancestors, in the solemn passage which concludes the "Scenes of Infancy," Scott continues: “But the best epitaph is the story of a life engaged in the practice of virtue and the pursuit of honourable knowledge: the best monument the regret of the worthy and the wise: and the rest may be summed up in the sentiment of Sanazzaro:

"Haeccine te fessum tellus extrema manebat

Hospitii post tot terraeque marisque labores?
Pone tamen gemitus, nec te monumenta parentum
Aut maneant sperata tuis tibi funera reguis;
Grata quies patriae, sed et omnis terra sepulchrum."

PART I.

Sweet scenes of youth, to faithful memory dear,
Still fondly cherish'd with the sacred tear,
When, in the soften'd light of summer-skies,
Full on my soul life's first illusions rise!
Sweet scenes of youthful bliss, unknown to pain!
I come, to trace your soothing haunts again,
To mark each grace that pleas'd my stripling
prime,

By absence hallow'd, and endear'd by time,
To lose amid your winding dells the past:--
Ah! must I think this lingering look the last?
Ye lovely vales, that met my earliest view!
How soft ye smil'd, when Nature's charms were

new!

Green was her vesture, glowing, fresh, and warm, And every opening grace had power to charm;

While as each scene in living lustre rose, Each young emotion wak'd from soft repose.

E'en as I muse, my former life returns,
And youth's first ardour in my bosom burns.
Like music melting in a lover's dream,

I hear the murmuring song of Teviot's stream:
The crisping rays, that on the waters lie,
Depict a paler moon, a fainter sky;
While through inverted alder boughs below
The twinkling stars with greener lustre glow.

On these fair banks thine ancient hards no more, Enchanting stream! their melting numbers pour; But still their viewless harps, on poplars hung, Sigh the soft airs they learn'd when time was

young:

And those who tread with ho'y feet the ground, At lonely midnight, hear their silver sound;

When river breezes wave their dewy wings,
And lightly fan the wild enchanted strings.

What earthly hand presumes, aspiring bold,
The airy harp of ancient bards to hold,
With ivy's sacred wreath to crown his head,
And lead the plaintive chorus of the dead-
He round the poplar's base shall nightly strew
The willow's pointed leaves, of pallid blue,
And still restrain the gaze, reverted keen,
When round him deepen sighs from shapes unseen,
An o'er his lonely head, like summer bees,
The leaves self-moving tremble on the trees.
When morn's first rays fall quivering on the
strand,

Then is the time to stretch the daring hand,
And snatch it from the bending poplar pale,
The magic harp of ancient Teviotdale.

If thou, Aurelia, bless the high design, And softly smile, that daring hand is mine! Wild on the breeze the thrilling lyre shall fling Melodious accents from each elfin string. Such strains the harp of haunted Merlin threw,1 When from his dreams the mountain-sprites withdrew;

Till, far retiring from her native rills,
She leaves the covert of her sheltering hills,
And, gathering wide her waters on their way,
With foamy force emerges into day.

Where'er she sparkles o'er her silver sand,
The daisied meads in glowing hues expand;
Blue osiers whiten in their bending rows;
Broad o'er the stream the pendent alder grows;
But, more remote, the spangled fields unfold
Their bosoms, streak'd with vegetative gold;
Gray downs ascending dimple into dales;
The silvery birch hangs o'er the sloping vales;
While, far remote, where flashing torrents shine,
In misty verdure towers the tapering pine,
And dusky heaths in sullen languor lie,
Where Cheviot's ridges swell to meet the sky.

As every prospect opens on my view,

I seem to live departed years anew;
When in these wilds a jocund, sportive child,
Each flower self-sown my heedless hours beguil'd;
The wabret leaf, that by the pathway grew,
The wild-briar rose, of pale and blushful hue,
The thistle's rolling wheel, of silken down,
The blue-bell, or the daisy's pearly crown,

"Once more, begirt with many a martial peer, Victorious Arthur shall his standard rear, In ancient pomp his mailed bands display; While nations wondering mark their strange array, Their proud commanding port, their giant form, The spirit's stride, that treads the northern storm. Where fate invites them to the dread repast, Dark Cheviot's eagles swarm on every blast; On Camlan bursts the sword's impatient roar; The war-horse wades with champing hoofs in gore; The scythed car on grating axle rings; Broad o'er the field the ravens join their wings; Above the champions in the fateful hour Floats the black standard of the evil power."

Though many a wondrous tale of elder time Shall grace the wild traditionary rhyme, Yet, not of warring hosts and faulchion-wounds Again the harp of ancient minstrels sounds: Be mine to sing the meads, the pensile groves, And silver streams, which dear Aurelia loves.

From wilds of tawny heath and mosses dun, Through winding glens scarce pervious to the sun, Afraid to glitter in the noon-tide beam, The Teviot leads her young, sequester'd stream;

1 Merlin of Caledonia, from his habits of life named "The Wild," is said to have been one of the earliest poets of the south of Scotland whose name is preserved by history or tradition.

Again I view the cairn, and moss-gray stone, Where oft at eve I wont to muse alone, And vex with curious toil mine infant eye, To count the gems that stud the nightly sky, Or think, as playful fancy wander'd far, How sweet it were to dance from star to star!

Again I view each rude romantic glade, Where once with tiny steps my childhood stray' I To watch the foam-bells of the bubbling brook, Or mark the motions of the clamorous rook, Who saw her nest, close thatch'd with ceaseless toil,

At summer-eve become the woodman's spoil.

How lightly then I chas'd from flower to flower The lazy bee, at noon-tide's languid hour, When, pausing faint beneath the sweltering heat, The hive could scarce their drowsy hum repeat!

Nor scenes alone with summer-beauties bright, But winter's terrors brought a wild delight, With fringed flakes of snow that idly sail, And windows tinkling shrill with dancing hail; While, as the drifting tempest darker blew, White showers of blossoms seem'd the fields to

strew.

Again, beside this silver riv'let's shore, With green and yellow moss-flowers mottled o'er,

2 Wabret, or Wabron, a word of Saxon origin, is the common name for the plantain leaf in Teviotdale.

Beneath a shivering canopy reclin'd

Of aspen leaves, that wave without a wind,
I love to lie, when lulling breezes stir
The spiry cones that tremble on the fir,
Or wander mid the dark-green fields of broom,
When peers in scatter'd tufts the yellow bloom,
Or trace the path with tangling furze o'er-run;
When bursting seed-bells crackle in the sun,
And pittering grasshoppers, confus'dly shrill,
Pipe giddily along the glowing hill.

Sweet grasshopper, who lov'st at noon to lie
Serenely in the green-ribb'd clover's eye,
To sun thy filmy wings and emerald vest,
Unseen thy form, and undisturb'd thy rest!
Oft have I listening mus'd the sultry day,
And wonder'd what thy chirping song might say;
When nought was heard along the blossom'd lea,
To join thy music, save the listless bee.

Since with weak step I trac'd each rising down, Nor dream'd of worlds beyond yon mountains brown,

These scenes have ever to my heart been dear; But still, Aurelia, most when thou wert near!

On Eden's banks, in pensive fit reclin'd,
Thy angel-features haunted still my mind;
And oft, when ardent fancy spurn'd control,
The living image rush'd upon my soul,

Fill'd all my heart, and mid the bustling crowd
Bade me forgetful muse or think aloud;
While, as I sigh'd thy favourite scenes to view,
Each lingering hour seemed lengthening as it flew.
As Ovid, banish'd from his favourite fair,
No gentle melting heart his grief to share,
Was wont in plaintive accents to deplore
Campania's scenes, along the Getic shore;
A lifeless waste, unfann'd by vernal breeze,
Where snow-flakes hung like leaves upon the trees:
The fur-clad savage lov'd his aspect mild,1
Kind as a father, gentle as a child,

And though they pitied, still they bless'd the doom,

That bade the Getæ hear the songs of Rome.

Sweet scenes, conjoin'd with all that most endears

The cloudless morning of my tender years!
With fond regret your haunts I wander o'er,
And wondering feel myself the child no more:
Your forms, your sunny tints, are still the same;-
But sad the tear which lost affections claim.

Aurelia! mark yon silver clouds unroll'd, Where far in ether hangs each shining fold, That on the breezy billow idly sleeps, Or climbs ambitious up the azure steeps! Their snowy ridges seem to heave and swell With airy domes, where parted spirits dwell;

See Ovid, "De Ponto," lib. iv. eleg. 9, 13.

Untainted souls, from this terrestrial mould
Who fled, before the priest their names had told.

On such an eve as this, so mild and clear,
I follow'd to the grave a sister's bier.
As sad by Teviot I retir'd alone,
The setting sun with silent splendour shone;
Sublime emotions reach'd my purer mind;
The fear of death, the world was left behind.
I saw the thin-spread clouds of summer lie,
Like shadows, on the soft cerulean sky:
As each its silver bosom seem'd to bend,
Rapt fancy heard an angel-voice descend,
Melodious as the strain which floats on high,
To soothe the sleep of blameless infancy;
While, soft and slow, aerial music flow'd,
To hail the parted spirit on its road.

To realms of purer light," it seem'd to say, "Thyself as pure, fair sufferer, come away! The moon, whose silver beams are bath'd in dew, Sleeps on her mid-way cloud of softest blue; Her watery light, that trembles on the tree, Shall safely lead thy viewless steps to me." As o'er my heart the sweet illusions stole, A wilder influence charm'd and aw'd my soul; Each graceful form that vernal nature wore Rous'd keen sensations never felt before; The woodland's sombre shade that peasants fear, The haunted mountain-streams that murmur'd near,

The antique tombstone, and the church-yard green,

Seem'd to unite me with the world unseen.
Oft, when the eastern moon rose darkly red,
I heard the viewless paces of the dead,
Heard on the breeze the wandering spirits sigh,
Or airy skirts unseen that rustled by.
The lyre of woe, that oft had sooth'd my pain,
Soon learn'd to breathe a more heroic strain,
And bade the weeping birch her branches wave
In mournful murmurs o'er the warrior's grave.
Where rising Teviot joins the Frostylee,
Stands the huge trunk of many a leafless tree.
No verdant wood-bine wreaths their age adorn;
Bare are the boughs, the gnarled roots uptorn.
Here shone no sun-beam, fell no summer dew,
Nor ever grass beneath the branches grew,
Since that bold chief who Henry's power defied,1
True to his country, as a traitor died.

Yon mouldering cairns, by ancient hunters plac'd,

Where blends the meadow with the marshy waste, Mark where the gallant warriors lie:-but long Their fame shall flourish in the Scotian song; The Scotian song, whose deep impulsive tones Each thrilling fibre, true to passion, owns,

1 Johnnie Armstrong, a famous Border warrior. He was hanged, with all his retinue, by James V. about 1530.